


The Stars that Marked our Starting

by versus_versus



Category: The Arcana (Visual Novel)
Genre: Alcohol, Amnesia, Banter, Blood and Injury, Costume Parties & Masquerades, F/M, Graphic Depictions of Illness, M/M, MC and Lucio have a History, Magic, Medieval Medicine, Plague, Sparring, Swordfights, Unrequited Love, and a murder most foul, blessings or curses nobody knows, the Arcana backstory
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-11-06
Updated: 2017-11-06
Packaged: 2019-01-30 12:11:25
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,626
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12653283
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/versus_versus/pseuds/versus_versus
Summary: Two old friends take separate paths. Their lives become their own, but their destinies remain intertwined.Before the story of The Arcana, Vesuvia had parties, a plague, and a major problem with political apathy. This is, maybe, what happened.(Or, What Not to do When your Oldest Friend is an Asshole)





	The Stars that Marked our Starting

**Author's Note:**

> I just want to make some things clear up front:  
> -Mal, the MC in this story, is an asshole. I don’t condone any of his decisions, actions, etc. As a disclaimer, if you cannot differentiate between real life and fiction, this isn’t the fic for you.  
> -To keep this story true to the media that birthed it, it’s told in first person. For some people (including me) that's an instant turn-off. Bear with me, give it a go for a chapter and see if you can stand his voice before you nix it.  
> -This fic will be rated M for discussion/portrayal of mature topics, non-explicit banging, medical gore, and violence. If I get particularly inspired, I may finish writing up the explicit scenes that have been cut to keep it out of E territory and post them as separate one-shots.  
> -The story starts off pretty Lucio-heavy, and ch 1 portrays him much more generously than the rest of the story. That changes, don’t worry, he’s going to spiral REAL FAST.  
> -As more details emerge in the game, I’m sure this will be less accurate. Goes without saying, I’m writing this for fun and I apologize for any inaccuracies now or in the future. Feel free to approach me on the tumblr about it at georgette-the-frog, I’m open to chatting about potential corrections.  
> -For the record, Mal doesn’t bang the ghost goat in fic. Although that’s not for lack of trying on Lucio’s part.

“But the stars that marked our starting fall away.  
We must go deeper into greater pain,  
for it is not permitted that we stay.”  
― Dante Alighieri, Inferno

It begins, I suppose, with the wedding.

When I arrive at the docks of Vesuvia, the port is bustling. Fishmongers and seafarers crowd the pier as dockworkers try to move cargo through the throngs. With the upcoming festivities, travelling dignitaries should be arriving, and I’m unsurprised to see an escort dressed in clean, sharp uniforms waiting for someone with a coach, ornate and quite frankly impractical for the narrow streets of the city. Still, visiting dignitaries in town for the celebration must be accustomed to a certain degree of luxury, and there’s no accounting for taste.

Once I adjust my pack on my shoulders, I wander awhile. The markets are bustling, much like I remember them in my youth. Then, I hadn’t a penny to my name unless I’d stolen it, so it feels like a luxury to be able to stop for a cup of hot tea or a handful of stuffed olives.

Moving is a sweet reprieve from the cramped quarters of the last two weeks, and I make my way up through the markets and neighborhoods toward the palace. A brief interlude with the guards and I’m in, being ushered along in the wake of a well-dressed attendant.

Once on the grounds, I can see that the palace itself is beautiful. I distantly remember the numbers when it came to the estate Lucio had been granted after the Allusian situation, but even so, it’s in excess of everything I‘ve ever imagined. The last sight I’d had of it was at the docks, delivering the Lady Nadia and her entourage to an honor guard upon her arrival here. That was eight months ago now, and when they escort me through courtyards and into an atrium it becomes clear she has made herself perfectly at home here.

She is, of course, stunning as ever, perhaps even moreso now that seasickness is a distant memory. She cuts a striking figure, tall and regal as she is, but the soft smile dancing about her lips is kind and welcoming.

“It’s good to see you again.” She nods to me and I sweep a bow, trying to observe formalities as best I can remember.

“And you.”

“You seem to have evaded our escort.”

“Excuse me?”

She frowns. “I sent a coach and guard for you, were they not there?”

Ah.The coach in the harbor. It’s an awkward realization, and I apologize. Part of me can’t understand that level of excess for me, of all people. I immediately feel out of place and inferior in my travelling clothes. Still, practicality is far more important in my life than appearance, so I brace myself for comments that never come.

She graciously waves off my mistake. “No worries, it was a simple misunderstanding. I’ll ensure it doesn’t happen again.”

I scramble to change the topic. “How have you settled in?”

“It is…” she hesitates, “...not what I expected, perhaps. But still, Vesuvia is lovely and I think I will be quite happy here. Although I ought to have expected it, given everything you told me on our journey.”

“In my defense, I haven’t been back to Vesuvia since I was…” I tried to remember. “…fifteen? Sixteen? Maybe?”

“Oh, so I’ve heard. Lucio never shuts up about your escapades.”

“Surely he exaggerates. You know how he is.”

“Did you really commandeer an entire Brentalian clipper without losing a single man?” she asks.

I cringe at the memory. “He definitely exaggerates. That was years ago, I’m much more…academically inclined these days.” Technically it isn’t a lie. The last few years spent in and out the the capital, with all the access to the royal library I please, have been a blessing. After our last escapade, we’d both been granted royal favors. He’d asked for a title. I’d asked for access to the mage’s guild and the royal libraries. We’d parted ways, both having gotten gifts beyond our greatest childhood imaginings.

“I’m sure it’s a far cry from the royal library, but you are quite welcome to ours at any time.” Nadia says. “Word has been sent to Lord Lucio, he’s out with the hunting dogs. Leave your pack and walk with me in the gardens? I’ll have your things sent to your room and when we return, we can take tea.”

Following her out onto the veranda I see it overlooks a lush garden, more like the Countess-to-be’s homeland. She strolls toward the east wing, beckoning me to follow her down the marble stairs onto the paved garden path. We take things at a slow, stately pace, taking time to appreciate the early summer blooms. We stroll for a time speaking of nothing important as the high sun warms my back. Nadia knows the gardens inside and out, every plant, every blossom. The smile on her face as she tucks a single sprig of lavender in her hair speaks of more than simple fondness for the flowers. Here, she seems happy. “Tea ought to be ready. Shall we head back?”

“As you will.”

When we sit down to tea at a wrought iron table and chairs on the veranda, platters are brought and shuffled and removed so efficiently I almost miss it. Nadia pours a fragrant tea from a delicate gold-trimmed teapot and we settle in. Small talk comes easy with her, and she starts to go through the upcoming events I should make an appearance at before the actual wedding.

The day is warming quickly, and I hope the caffeine in the tea kicks in soon. With the warmth of the sun on my back, my shirt sticks to my skin, tacky with sweat under my jacket. It’s distracting as she explains upcoming plans. “Preparations have long been complete, but since he’d like you to be a part of the wedding party, we’ll need to get you fitted for…”

“Mal!” I hear a voice behind me and my heart soars. I turn as I climb to my feet, finding a much more regal figure than I expected in clean-cut dress whites.

“Lucio,” I smile warmly, taking the proffered hand and finding myself pulled in for a hug with his good arm. “How are you, you shady old bastard?”

“That’s ‘Count’ to you now,” he laughs. He looks good, better than he ever did in our younger years. Then again, who looks good strung thin on months of fighting and half-rations? His face is no longer gaunt and hollow, although it’s still high-cheeked and lean by nature. Everything from the shine of his hair to his open stance looks truly healthy, but for the gauntlet-like apparatus that serves to replace his missing arm. I can taste a tang in the air, and it’s clear that it’s laced with magic.

He’s accompanied by a narrow man, dressed all in a variety greys, who gapes at the two of us, scandalized. Lucio covers before I’m forced to make an excuse. “Oh, don’t be so shocked. We worked together in Atrela, Mal’s an old friend.”

“And then in Stace, and Gutruica.” I continue, ticking them off on my fingers. “Even Brightshore for a bit, if you count the time we went to retrieve Princess Aveene. Wherever there was a need.”

Lucio snorts. “A need. Of course you’d call it that.”

“Well. There was a need. Of a sort.” And there had been. We’d needed the cash, and her father’s counselor had needed her as a bargaining chip. Not one of our more honorable exploits, but it had all worked out in the end, no bloodshed. Clearly, my answer fails to satisfy the man at Lucio’s shoulder. “I promise to be on my most socially acceptable behavior from here on out, ah…?” I trail off, hoping he’ll provide me with his name.

“Consul Ewan Valerius,” he says too quickly, shuffling the folder tucked under one dove-grey velvet clad arm to the other and holding out his hand.

“Well met then, Consul Valerius. Malachi Stryder, at your service.”

He smiles, an expression that doesn’t reach his eyes, and gives me another once-over. “You are…not quite as I expected, mage.”

“You know, you should never take anything Lucio says about me at face value.”

The Count affects astonishment, snatching a biscuit from his fiancée’s carefully-set table. “You wound me.”

“Oh really? Because I’ve heard a secondhand story about our little misadventure with _The Foxglove._ ”

Lucio pauses, thinks it over a moment. “I suppose I might have exaggerated that one a bit.”

“A bit?”

“Has anyone shown you to your rooms yet?” he deflects, taking another biscuit.

“I’d just sat down to tea with…”

“Oh, Nadi won’t mind, will you dear?” He takes my arm and steers me away. As I look back, Nadia’s expression is carefully neutral. Her eyes look hurt, and I can’t help but think I’ve disappointed her. “Now, I’m sure you were able to see part of the gardens, but I really must show you the rest of the grounds sometime soon. The stables are…”

I shift my attention to him, listening as attentively as I can as he gives me a tour of the palace and grounds.

* * *

The week leading up to the wedding is full of social events that the couple is required at, but my hosts both still find time for me, Lucio in particular. If he can’t make time, he drags me along to various social functions. It becomes a pattern: he introduces me as an old friend and after a couple glasses of wine to loosen his tongue, the entire party is treated to a dramatic telling of one of our youthful misadventures. As embarrassing as the stories are, Lucio milks them for all they’re worth. He paints me in a more flattering light than I deserve, a mix of rogue and friend and humorous sidekick to his own heroic escapades.

Over glasses of wine at a soiree one night he grins at me and loudly requests my presence in the south courtyard for training at dawn the next day.

It’s an open invitation to poke fun and I’ve long since discovered that our old friendship is somewhat unique to the court. I’m certainly not going to pass up the opportunity to cause a small scandal. “You sure you want to get roughed up so soon before the ceremony? As I recall, you bruise like a peach.”

There are a couple of stifled gasps from the scattered circle of courtiers around us, who still haven’t grown accustomed to my lack of respect for their _esteemed Count_. But he laughs anyway. “You’re the only person I know won’t hold back, and I’ve some energy I need to burn off. I feel I might jump out of my own skin if I don’t.”

“Why, if I didn’t know better I’d call you out on pre-wedding jitters. But I know you for a man of courage, so that certainly can’t be it.”

His eyes flash dangerously and I know I’ve hit a nerve. He recovers quickly though, smiling widely and laughing low before taking a sip of deep red wine. “Are you going to go easy on me like the rest of these fools or are you actually going to give me a challenge, Mal?”

I weigh my options, quickly concluding I only have a few that won’t irritate him more than might be deemed acceptable. Our old cross-chested salute still feels right, as does a slight bow with mocking intent. “As you ask. I’ll give you a good fight. I’ll even avoid your pretty face, if I can”

The hungry look on his face deepens, his eyes narrowing as he grins. “Excellent. I’ll see you at dawn in the eastern courtyard, then.” He drains the rest of the glass and glances at it. “In the meantime, I have others I must attend to. If you would excuse me…”

As he walks past, he grips my shoulder firmly, a brief acknowledgment of…something. What, I’m not sure.

* * *

Morning comes too soon, and as I dress for training, I can’t help but wonder what his purposes are. Still, a promise is a promise, and I buckle my scabbard at my left side, checking the slip of the blade before continuing to arm myself in a familiar pattern. My favorite knife at my right hip, blades in my boots. Then my preferred pieces of lightweight leather armor, the gorget about my neck and the right pauldron and bracer, all carefully fastened. With a quick glance in the mirror to make sure I look somewhat presentable, I’m out the door, attempting to navigate my way through the labyrinthine passageways to the eastern courtyard, as Lucio had called it.

I arrive before he does, examining the cobbled surface under the rising dawn light. There’s a slight coat of dew across the stones, turning the ground into unreliable terrain. It’s not entirely flat either, and if Lucio knows the courtyard as I suspect he does, I’ll be at a disadvantage.

“Morning.” There’s a voice behind me. Lucio looks fresh for the day, impeccable in a clean-cut deep red jacket. I can spot the money in the tailoring a mile off, and it’s obnoxious. It’s also very _him._

“Morning to you too, you peacocking bastard.”

“Sloppy old hack.”

“Mm. You say old but I’m still younger than you.”

“You’re just jealous that I can keep a personal tailor and you…” He gives me a once-over and wrinkles his nose. “Are you still wearing the boots you stole off that guard in Calmont?”

“I am, thank you very much. They’ve worn quite well, wouldn’t give them up.” I hold out my hand expectantly. He knows the routine. “And jealous of your taste? Not likely. Neutral colors suit me. I don’t like making a target of myself.”

Lucio hands his blade over and scowls, the barb pricking a bit too close to home. “Touché.”

“Shush, let me focus.” The threads of the magic I need are easy to grasp. I’ve found it and woven it to my own purposes time after time, blocking the edges of our blades for practice purposes on the daily for years. When the shape of the blocking edge is made, the power I harness brings it into being, effectively turning our preferred blades into practice weapons.

I thump his blade across my open palm and push the point against my skin, testing it. The slash stings but does no damage, and the point feels solid, but certainly not sharp. He flexes his golden fingers and reaches to take the blade back and I can taste the enchantment in the air as he does so. His flesh arm might be missing, but the replacement reeks of magic and I’d bet anything it has at least the same functionality, if not more, than his real arm did.

Checking my own blunted blade reveals similar satisfactory results. “Alright. Rules?”

Lucio tests his own, as if he doubts my skill. “Other than blunting the blades, no magic.”

“Acceptable. Although you might give me a run for my money with any charms you’ve got embedded in that.” I nod to his hand and he flexes it again, re-gripping the hilt of his blade with a grin.

“Isn’t it lovely? The plating was crafted by the finest armorers in the country and the enchantments were cast by Terannion himself.” The way he says it, the name bears weight, at least here in Vesuvia.

“Mm. Not familiar with him.” My ignorance irks him, but I don’t think particularly highly of commercial mages. They’ve simply marketed their skills differently. Some of them are as good as they claim, but a higher percentage are money-grubbing hacks that take advantage of the desperate. I should know. I’d done the same once, a long time ago before I’d met him and found a somewhat legitimate job. “If you don’t mind, I’d love to take a look at it later.”

“Of course. But first, a practical demonstration, don’t you think?”

“I promised you a challenge, but we’ll see how it goes.”

“Oh, I’m sure you’ll manage. You always do.” He grins, feral, and lowers his stance. “Ready?”

We circle each other, wary and well aware of the other’s abilities. Physically, I know I’m…rusty, for lack of a better word. Magic is the easy, efficient weapon I reach for these days, and I haven’t been forced to fight without it in months. Even so, there are some skills so deeply ingrained in my mind that I’ll never forget them, and even magic requires strategy and proper positioning in relationship to an opponent. A purely physical duel is just another type of fight.

Right, left, right, left…there. His foot shifts as he changes his balance. Step one, two, and the blade which had up until this point put distance between us flickers right, a clear distraction as he draws his hand left, shifting its weight that direction for an attack. I retreat quickly, putting more space between us than is altogether necessary. Still, he takes the bait and follows, pressing his presumed advantage.

His blows are heavy and I can feel him angling for a shot at the back of my shoulder or my neck, both of which are protected by the lightweight leather. It’ll hurt like a bitch with a hard enough blow. Though we’ve been through this particular song and dance many a time, he has a way of feeling truly threatening, even with a blunted blade.

I try again, retreating and letting him press forward. It works just long enough to give me time to dodge aside as he pursues. The single faltering step gives me a slight advantage, and I angle for a shot at his ribs, trying to get in around his defenses from the side before he recovers.

I catch him with the flat of the blade, but not hard enough to do any real damage in a serious duel. No point. But in doing so, I over-extend and before I can recover, Lucio redirects his forward motion snakestrike quick. He’s as fast on his feet as ever, and it takes all my concentration to block the next high line blow. It rattles through my frame and my teeth clack together. He follows it up with a solid kick to the chest even as I’m still reeling. It throws me on my back, hard.

When I manage to breath again through the pain in my chest and focus, I look up to find Lucio’s blade pointed at my throat.

“Yeah, this one is yours,” I sigh as he moves the blade aside and lets me climb back to my feet to reset for the next bout.

As we work our way through drills and bouts, a small crowd of nosy courtiers gathers. I want to ask him to tell them off, but with an audience he seems to enjoy himself.

Instead, I simply try not to look the fool in front of them. I pare back my actions, tightening up my defense and letting Lucio be as flashy as he likes.

He forces me backward and finally gets the space to bring the blade down with full force, a heavy over-handed attack that takes all of my strength to deflect. He toys with me, strike after strike landing hard enough against my blocks and parries to wind me as I move. My shoulder feels jarred by each and every blow, like a hammer hitting home. My heart thrums in my ears, the grit of dust kicked up from the cobblestones thick in my mouth. The moment is visceral and I can’t, won’t let him win.

In the end, the choice is taken from me. In an underhanded but technically fair move, he maneuvers me to the arch and a momentary misstep causes me to nearly lose my footing. Although I recover, the distraction is enough for him to close the rest of the distance on me, slipping up through my defenses and bodily shoving me back into the wall. My head collides with the stone and before I can try to get back into en garde, he pins me to the wall. With his gauntleted arm across my throat and his free hand gripping my weapon hand by the wrist, I don’t have much choice.

His nose flares as he sucks in a breath. “Surrender.”

“Fuck. Fine.” My mouth tastes of metal and dust. “Point’s yours.”

His smile is wide and white and _alive_ , and for a moment I recognize the man I met nearly eight years ago. He backs off, releasing my throat and wrist.

As I rub what feels like a developing bruise in my throat away, I ask, “Magic this time?”

His mouth twists into a frown of indecision and he sighs, put upon. “I suppose it’s only fair. No holds barred but nothing that’ll cause visible damage, yes?”

“Of course. You’ve got a wedding in two days, I wouldn’t have you miss that. And I won’t use anything too underhanded.”

He pauses. “I’ll be using any and all means to defend myself.”

“Do me a favor and try to avoid maiming me.”

Lucio takes a deep breath. “Alright then. Do your worst.”

As I focus my energies inward, the pacing of the world around me shifts, as though my mind is a second or two ahead of what is actually happening. I know Lucio will settle into an en garde, and he does. I know the courtiers that are watching will titter quietly, and they do. As I push more energy into the spell, the gap between what I know will happen and when it happens widens to nearly a full second.

It isn’t flashy magic and it takes a lot of my energy, but it’s worth it. It’s the gift of foresight, a single second of stolen moments that, if used correctly, can give me a serious advantage in a fight.

Lucio watches me suspiciously, waiting for me to make the first move. When he decides to take an attack, I can see it before it happens, and it doesn’t matter how fast he is. I parry it with ease, there before I need to be thanks to the gift of foresight. Suddenly, the tables turn. Where I had been unsure of my actions only minutes ago, I can assess and react before he completes his own action. Lucio’s eyes widen with recognition. They ought to. He’s seen this spell time and time again. It’s one of my favorites.

He holds up a hand and retreats, calling a halt. “Oh. Come on, you know that isn’t…”

“Fair. Yes, I know, but you don’t think any magic is.”

Lucio’s glare sharpens. “Well. It’s not.”

“You could always learn a few spells,” I shrug, shrugging as cockily as I can. It’s easy to get a rile out of him when his blood’s running hot, and there are few things with the capacity to piss him off like magic used against him.

“You know damn well I’m-“

“-not magically inclined.” I say in-sync with him. “Yeah, I know.”

He groans.

This time when he resumes his attack, I’m at an easy advantage. The moves seem to flow, one into the next. Lucio is even more aggressive, pressing every advantage and forcing me to match his speed.

Lucio spins and I parry the blow, only to find that as the blade slides away, he ripostes with a slash at my side. This time he’s so fast, it doesn’t matter that I know it’s coming. There’s no time to parry again and I dance away, barely avoiding the blade. I can see what he’s going to do and how he’s going to follow the action through even before he does it, but I still have to be fast enough to keep up. I catch his blade with the hilt of my own and as we grapple, he snarls at me over blunted steel.

As he goes to push, I drop low and use his momentum against him, simply dropping to a squat and letting his shove go over my shoulders. From there, it’s almost easy to let his body weight carry the action through, and I carry him up and over with a well-placed foot to the gut as I fall back. The thump behind me is heavy, and I scramble up to find him on his back, looking at the sky half-dazed.

“You alright?” I ask.

“I hate that fucking spell,” he huffs.

“I know you do.” I offer him a hand up and he reluctantly takes it.

We take a short break for water, but then we’re back at it. It’s just like old times.

It’s a matter of getting tricky. He’s bested me before while I’ve used this spell, but it’s counterintuitive to his usual style. Lucio’s style relies on strength and speed and experience. Deception doesn’t come easy to him, and the easiest way past my defenses is a combination of deception and speed. He throws in an appel with little luck, unable to distact me with something I already know doesn’t pose a threat, but I get caught up a minute later as he tries to bind my blade.

By the time I disengage myself from such close quarters, I can already see him launching the beginning of another attack.

Parry, twist, and he lunges at me, a straightforward attack. I hardly even need the spell to know I have to retreat out of his distance, and my cockiness is what nearly does me in. Even as he’s finishing the attack, Lucio gets his feet under him and recovers forward, launching into another lunge that nails me in the non-dominant shoulder with the point of his blunted blade. It’s not enough to break skin, but it’s like being punched in the shoulder with a pool cue straight to the soft tissue between arm and chest. My whole arm feels on fire.

“You alright?”

“Yeah,” I grunt, trying to gather myself.

It’s infuriating, and I’m done playing games. When Lucio recovers and we reset, he comes back around for another attack. I don’t wait around to parry him. I move and his actions find nothing but empty air. After three such attempts, a scowl etches itself across his face. When I finally engage him again, he grits his teeth and pushes, trying to get the upper hand by sheer strength alone.

It’s not going to happen. I can see the direction of the fight, exactly what he’s going to do before he even starts to do it. I’m tired of defending, and I switch over to a much more aggressive strategy, pushing him where I want him. Once inside his defenses, all I have to do is look out for counter-attacks, any opportunity he might take to turn the fight back in his favor.

As he parries me, he feints and swings a leg up, nailing me in the gut like a suckerpunch. He takes the leverage he has on my blade and twists, catching the guard and forcing me to let go or break my wrist.

Down on the ground, disarmed and hurting, my position should be dire. But we’ve been here before, in this exact situation, and I _know_ what he’s going to do. I let go of the threads of the spell I’ve been keeping together, reaching for fire and force instead as he closes the distance. He comes down at me with an overhead strike and I put all my trust in my magic, coming up from below with a flat-palmed blow to the chest, quick as I can.

The energy released by the concussive force directed at his ribs is akin to being kicked by a horse. He goes flying back, blade skittering across the cobbles and away from him. As the spell fades, I find myself struggling for breath. It’s not from physical exertion, but the drain of maintaining the first spell.

“Blasted mage,” he groans, rolling to his stomach and pushing himself up. It takes time for him to regain his feet.

“You alright?”

“A bit bruised I think, but fine.” He touches his chest with tentative fingers and winces. “Very bruised.”

“Anything broken?”

“I don’t think so.”

After a break, we get back into it yet again. A quarter hour passes and as he fails to land a single blow, his anger starts to surface. He’s reckless, throwing attacks he doesn’t stand a chance of landing and sliding back into his old habits, despite knowing they’re detrimental to his learned abilities.

On a break, I see someone scurry from the crowd and make a beeline for us. It’s the scrawny court flunky, the one I met the first morning I arrived. Valerius, if I remember correctly.

He approaches with all the self-righteousness of a noble born and raised in court. “My Lord, I’m sure this is important but the meeting with the ambassador from Yevan is in an hour and if you want a chance to clean up and eat something first…”

Lucio scowls in the moment his back is still to the man, but as he turns around, he masks it with a cordial smile. “Can we push the meeting back?”

Valerius glances at me and I can tell I’m not wanted. My presence has thrown a wrench in the schedule, and while sparring has been entertaining, I take pity on the man and cover for him. “Actually, I have a few things I’d like to see to today, if I can. Nadia mentioned the palace library, I was wondering if perhaps I could take a look after I’ve cleaned up?”

Surprise momentarily flickers across Valerius’s face, but Lucio sighs. “Yeah, that’s probably a wise idea. I’ll see you at dinner. That meeting will probably last most of the day.”

* * *

The last few days before the wedding are busy, but not impossibly so for a guest. The rehearsal goes smoothly, as does dinner. The night before the wedding I turn in early, hoping to run through a couple of interesting books I had discovered in the library.

It’s getting late when there’s an urgent rap on the door. I wait a moment, uncertain, and it comes again. I surrender the blanket I’m wrapped in and push myself out of bed. The floor is cool on my bare feet, the faint evening breeze from the veranda door enough that I’m slightly chilled. I open the door to find Lucio.

He looks rough. The first clue is the bottle in his hand. Then...everything else.

His clothes are rumpled, not in the rakish way he used to wear them but wrinkled. Messy. His shirt hangs open, one of the buttons hanging desperately by a thread, he’s ditched his boots somewhere and his stocking feet are splayed wide for balance. Eyes wide, face splotchy with wine-blush. He’s a mess.

“You alright?” I ask.

“Nope,” he answers and pushes past me into my room. He wobbles, just a bit as he passes me, and I offer an arm for balance. Instead of supporting himself on my forearm as I’d expected, he grabs higher, clamping down on my bicep with his gauntleted hand. His grip is tight enough that the claws pierce my shirt and scrape skin. The pain is nothing but an annoyance, but I can’t help feeling a sense of loss at the damage to one of my last good shirts.

“Could you…not?”

His eyes are glassy from the wine, but he slowly follows my pointed gaze and realizes what I mean. His grip loosens and he takes a couple steps to slump on my bed, narrowly avoiding spilling the bottle. I pry it from his grip and place it on the table nearby, turning to clean up the notes and book I’d been working my way through before he arrived.

By the time I look back to him, he’s retrieved the bottle and is sitting up, clinging to it. Through the half-buttoned gap in his shirt, I can see the bruising left over from sparring yesterday. It’s settled into an ugly black-purple bloom that rests midway down his sternum.

“So, what’s brought this on?”

“I don’t…’m not ready to be…” he falters, sighs, and rolls his eyes. I wait as he takes another swig of wine. “Marriage. Ugh.”

“You’re going to be hung over if you keep going.”

“You can do the hangover spell thingy, right?” He wiggles his golden hand in my face, claws uncomfortably close to my eyes.

I want to tell him no, that he needs to grow up and act like an adult, but maybe I’ll save that for tomorrow. We’ve been through this before, but never over something so important. It’s probably easiest to let him relax however he needs, try to talk him into getting some sleep, and patch him up in the morning. And I’m not looking for a fight, not tonight. “Yeah, I can.”

“Great!” His enthusiasm rings false. “Drink with me.” He pats the bed beside him and I sit down, taking the proffered bottle.

“Can’t do the spell if I’m hung over myself.” I take a swig to pacify him. It burns on the way down and I realize he’s drinking port. 

“Then I’ll be hung over. Doesn’t matter.” I’d known he was well on his way to drunk when he showed up, but I hand the bottle back and really take him in. His motions are even more exaggerated than usual, sloppy. The blush I’d seen in the hall is actually a splotchy red blooming across his cheeks, a sure sign that he’s shitfaced.

As if that isn’t enough of an indication, he takes another drag and grins. “Like what you see?”

I make a halfhearted attempt to be honest, knowing it won’t change anything. “I’m a bit worried about what I see, but if you’re looking for an affirmation that you’re still the pretty one, you’ve got it.”

“Hah!” the sound bursts out of him. “When’re you going to learn?”

“Never, it seems.”

He considers me for a long minute, then lurches sideways on the bed and throws his legs up over my lap. He catches a fistful of my shirt in his claw and drags me down next to him.

Realizing he’s trying to put the moves on me is a…surprise, to say the least. It’s not the first time, but it’s definitely the least opportune. “Really?”

He shrugs. “ ’m here anyway, might as well…”

I try to push myself away, but his hand is well-caught in my shirt. It tears a bit, and I resign myself to quite a bit of patching. “What the hell is wrong with you?”

“There’s nothing wrong with me.” He slurs a bit around the ‘th’ sounds. He’s pretty far gone.

“You had years to make a pass at me and you decide _the night before your wedding_ is an appropriate time?”

“But I _did_.I made plen-ty.” The syllables are exaggerated and sharp.

“Everything between us was pointedly _not serious_.” Once I pry his fingers off of me, he flops back down on the blanket, dropping the bottle. I panic for a moment before realizing it’s empty.

“Sure,” he snorts sarcastically. “What are a couple drunken blowjobs between friends?”

And that…stings. More than bit. He’s well aware I’d had a pathetic crush on him when we were younger, when I’d suffered from a chronic case of hero worship. Hanging out with him for nearly two decades had cured me of that. Occasionally, things had happened, but they hadn’t changed anything about our working relationship, and I’d always been under the impression that it hadn’t meant anything to him. Once I’d wrapped my head around the concept, it had been easy to just let whatever happen. It didn’t seem to do any harm.

But this is…uncomfortable. “None of that meant anything to you.”

“Mal, you fuckin’ idiot, you don’t know shit.”

“I know you don’t want to do this. Particularly the night before your wedding.” It’s a lie, but what else am I supposed to say?

“Oh, don’t I?” His face twists into something angry. He slumps loose-boned on the bed, shoving a pillow under his head as I try to fix my shirt. The silence is painfully awkward. I don’t want to throw him out, who knows what trouble he’ll get into? But I also don’t want him to make a decision that he’ll regret in the morning.

Because even if he doesn’t, I will.

A twisted, petty part of my heart wants him to keep trying simply because I spent years wanting him to want me, and now I want to return the heartache. But that was years ago, and I’ve moved on. And for him to try to initiate something now, it brings back the old hurt.

So I don’t say anything.

He lays there, staring up at the ceiling for awhile. Eventually, his eyes close, and I hope he’s tired enough to go to sleep.

“What do you want?” He asks me abruptly. His voice is quieter, less angry, but just as demanding and still a bit slurred. “You got what you wanted before, you can learn all the magic you want, whenever you want. So…what now?”

“I’m…not sure.” His question catches me off-guard. It feels far too sober for the state I know he’s in. Instead of answering it, I turn it back on him. “What about you? Now that you’ve got everything you wanted…what now?”

He looks at me with an expression of bewildered disgust like I’ve transformed into a squid. “The fuck are you talking about?”

“A nice respectable life? An estate and a province? A lovely wife and money and a legacy? How many times did you tell me you were meant for more than the shit we were up to?”

“ ’s no place up here for people like me, not really. They don’t want me here.” He throws his gauntleted arm up to his forehead dramatically, perilously close to his eyes.

The sentiment is eerily self-aware coming from him, despite the theatrics. “Um. You’re in charge? You make a place. You’ve got the power, you make them work with you to keep things up and running. You’ve got a shot at the life you were always telling me you wanted.”

There’s a long silence, which he finally breaks, saying, “Nadi hates me.”

“Excuse me?”

“I know she does.”

“You’re being dramatic.”

“This arranged marriage thing’s bullshit, Mal.” He trips a bit over the word ‘arranged’, but otherwise the he sounds sincere.

That gives me pause. “But…you helped arrange it.”

“Yeah, well. ’s still bullshit.”

“If that’s how you’re feeling, think about how _she’s_ feeling. She didn’t have any say at all.” He’s never been great at understanding what others are going through. Sometimes a reminder helps.

“Ohh, I know, and I know ’m not…good enough, either. D’you know her parents offered her instead of her sister ‘cause they thought they could work out a better deal for the oldest?”

“How’d you find that out?”

“Nadi told me.” He sounds thoroughly discouraged. “Make my way to the upper crust and people _still_ hate me.”

“You’ll make it work. Between the two of you, I’m sure you can.” He’s silent. I’m not sure if he’s angry or if he’s just done talking about it.

When he eventually starts snoring, I just let him sleep.

* * *

The next day, the wedding is lovely. My morning is spent keeping Lucio from panicking, making sure he’s recovered, and ensuring he’s where he needs to be on time. Once the ceremony starts, he seems to relax. It’s just another stage, and given an audience he can handle anything.

The wedding ceremony is beautiful, if boring. It’s a fairy tale come true, but what they don’t tell you about fairy tales is that there are several hours of formalities before there’s ever a ‘happily ever after’. Nadia is stunning, and I walk her sister up to the dais to stand behind her. The two of us act as aides through the ceremony, which goes just as we’ve rehearsed it. They go through all the legal and ceremonials formalities, nobody has an embarrassing mishap, and it’s finally done.

The reception is where things really step up to the next level. Lucio basks in the attention, flitting from group to group of guests with Nadia at his side, practically glowing. There’s not the slightest hint of the tensions he’d mentioned the night before visible between them.

For my part, I remain in the background as much as I can. After the few formal dances required of the wedding party, which I am utterly dismal at, I drift between groups of guests, responding to anyone who lays claim on my time. Nadia’s father, who still stands with the dignity of a military man despite his age, claims my attention for the better part of an hour to discuss the political climate in the capitol. He’s got a razor-sharp wit and a genial personality, and I like him immediately. Drinks flow liberally, loosening my tongue perhaps more than would be appropriate for the occasion, but he doesn’t fault me for it. Instead, he claps me on the back and laughs as I lambast the hierarchy of the mages guild, summoning another server with a tray of imported aquavit.

I’m eventually pried away by others, then whisked from conversation to conversation until I find myself face-to-face with Valerius, who I’ve managed to avoid most of the evening. He looks at me with open contempt, the wine in his hand making the court mask slip away.

“Consul.”

“Mage,” he acknowledges me and seems to struggle for words for a second, then takes a long-suffering sip of wine. When he swallows, he’s composed himself. “How do you think things are going?”

Honestly feels easiest. “You know, I’ve been so wrapped up in conversation I haven’t been paying attention? What are your thoughts?”

As much as he dislikes me, an invitation to gossip about the proceedings is an opening he’s clearly been waiting for. I snag another drink from a passing tray and settle in for the long haul, doing my damndest to look interested. I’ve not the slightest why he took such a sudden disliking to me at our first meeting, but the information he has may prove useful and I’d rather not be on his bad side.

I’m only on my second drink of the conversation when someone grabs me from behind. I twist, ready for a fight even though I’ve had more than my fair share to drink, but it’s only Lucio. “Come on, come on, come on, you’ve got to do _Pass the Meade_ with me, none of these morons knows it, come on.”

Valerius looks horrified as I’m hauled away, and that alone is enough reason to go with Lucio. He drags me through the party toward the balcony, then down the stairs and into the waiting public in the courtyard below. Somewhere, there ought to be security, but it seems Lucio has evaded them, and he drops into the teeming masses like we belong there.

Ordinarily, we would. We would be more at home here than at the starched and stuck up affair upstairs. But dressed as we are? Him being who he is? People gawk as we pass. We look ridiculous. I’m still sober enough to realize this, although only just. Lucio is still dressed in the vibrant scarlet suit he’d worn for the ceremony, and although I’m in a more subtle black, the red sash across my chest identifies me as a part of the wedding party. There’s no hiding who we are.

He clambers up onto a table with some help, raising his arms for attention and starting a beat, a polished leather boot thumping on the table in time to a clap until a small part of the crowd picks it up, and he hauls me up on the tabletop with him.

And then, when he’s got people’s attention, he starts singing _Pass the Meade_ at the top of his lungs. I fall in with him, like I do every time this happens, taking the harmony and…the crowd _roars_. And then they _join in_.

The rush of it all hits me like a storm front. It’s an elixir, the way these people love a show. When I think to look at him, Lucio looks half mad, lit up with the fevered adoration of the crowd.

After _Pass the Meade_ , Lucio takes suggestions from the press of people closest to his makeshift stage. He starts in on another song and whips the crowd back into a frenzy. I lose track of how much time passes, buoyed by the the crowd’s infectious enthusiasm. Halfway through _Drive the River Home_ I catch sight of Valerius, who has somehow made his way through the crowd to stand in the teeming press at Lucio’s left. He looks horrified, but can’t seem to look away.

After a couple songs, my voice is shot, but it doesn’t matter. Anything Lucio starts is picked up by the crowd, stomped and clapped and chanted back at him with fervor that can only be mustered by a drunken crowd several thousand strong. He soaks it in, arms raised, theatrical to the last.

In my gut, I know this is what Lucio has always wanted. He’s always loved playing the hero, but this is like worship. Adoration.

My doubts evaporate. They love him. This is where he belongs. He’ll learn.

**Author's Note:**

> I'm currently looking for a beta for this story! If you're interested, drop me a line or feel free to come chat with me
> 
> Questions, comments, corrections, and concerns always welcome!


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